My Husband Gave Our Family Recipes to His Mistress

The sun came up, but I didn’t move. I sat on the living room couch with a cold mug in my lap. My eyes burned from lack of sleep.

Around eight, the bedroom door clicked open. Travis stepped out in fresh dark jeans and a navy wool coat. He looked rested, sharp, and handsome.

In his left hand, he carried a blue-and-white bakery box.

The logo jumped out at me: *Levain Bakery*.

My chest tightened. Last winter, I had the flu for five days. My fever hit a hundred and two, and my throat felt like sandpaper. I remembered shivering under three blankets, whispering to him from the bed. I had asked him to grab one of Levain’s warm chocolate walnut cookies from the shop four blocks away. Just one.

Travis had sighed, checking his watch. *“Soleil, I have investor calls. I don't have time to run errands for cookies.”*

Now, he held the fresh box like it was made of glass. His phone was pressed to his ear.

“Yeah, I got them right when the doors opened,” he said into the phone, laughing softly. “Warm out of the oven. See you in twenty, babe.”

He grabbed his keys off the console table. He didn't look at me once. He didn't even notice I was sitting right there on the couch.

The door shut behind him. The deadbolt clicked into place.

I stared at the wood grain of the door. A cold realization washed over me. Travis was never incapable of warmth. He just refused to give any of it to me.

Ten minutes later, I stood up. My body felt numb, but my mind was entirely clear.

I sat down at the desk and opened the iPad. Our cloud accounts were still linked. Travis had never bothered to separate our shared drives.

I opened his photo stream and scrolled back.

It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. There was an entire folder labeled *Kennedi’s 25th*.

I clicked it.

It was a surprise birthday party on a rooftop in Brooklyn. Strings of warm fairy lights hung against the dark skyline. There was a two-tiered cake painted with gold leaf, and a professional photographer’s watermark stamped in the corner. In one photo, Travis had his arm wrapped tight around Kennedi’s waist, kissing her cheek while she threw her head back and laughed.

The date on the photos was August 14th.

August 14th was my birthday, too.

That night, Travis hadn't come home until two in the morning. He sent me a text at midnight: *Crazy prep night at the studio. So sorry babe. Happy birthday.*

I kept scrolling.

I got up, walked to the hallway closet, and checked the pockets of his heavy winter coats. In the lining of his gray trench, my fingers brushed against a folded slip of paper.

A receipt from a jeweler in SoHo.

It was dated three months ago. A limited-edition watch. Rose gold, custom engraving, and a five-thousand-dollar deposit to hold a spot on a three-month waiting list. The total was fifteen thousand dollars.

A memory flashed in my head. Last Christmas, I told Travis I didn’t want expensive jewelry or clothes. I told him all I wanted was for him to take Sunday off so we could cook dinner together at home.

On Christmas morning, he handed me a plastic drugstore bag. Inside was a fifty-dollar gift card to Williams Sonoma, tossed in next to a receipt for chewing gum and bottled water.

*“Figured you could pick out some spatulas,”* he had said with a shrug.

I folded the jewelry receipt, slid it back into his pocket, and grabbed my coat.

I took the subway down to his studio kitchen.

The bell above the heavy glass door chimed as I walked in. The studio smelled of roasted garlic and rich brown butter.

Travis stood at the main prep island, testing sauces. Leaning against the stainless-steel counter right beside him was Kennedi. She wore an oversized cashmere sweater that slipped off one shoulder. She was sipping an iced latte, laughing at something on her phone. She looked completely comfortable. She looked like she owned the place.

Both of them looked up when the door shut.

Travis blinked, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Soleil? What are you doing here?”

I stopped three feet from the counter. My voice was low, but it didn't shake.

“I know about you two,” I said. “And I know you took my father’s recipe collection.”

Kennedi didn't flinch. She set her iced latte down on the counter with a quiet click and crossed her arms.

Travis didn't even look guilty. He tossed his tasting spoon into the sink, picked up a towel, and wiped his hands.

“Don't start drama, Soleil,” he said, his tone flat and bored. “Not here.”

“You gave her my grandmother’s notes,” I said, pointing at Kennedi. “You let her butcher my family's heritage for video views.”

Travis let out a short, mocking laugh. He stepped closer, shaking his head.

“You should be grateful,” he said coldly. “That little family notebook sat on our shelf collecting dust for years. Nobody cared about it. I’m actually putting it to real use. I'm building an empire with it.”

“It wasn't yours to use,” I said.

“You're too sentimental,” Travis snapped, leaning in. “You live in the past. You don't have the stomach for brand-building, Soleil. You never did. You think small.”

Kennedi smiled faintly. She reached up to push a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

The track light caught the rose gold band on her wrist. The watch gleamed, pristine and flawless.

“She’s right, Travis,” Kennedi murmured, looking at me with easy, practiced pity. “You’re sweet, Soleil. Truly. But you’re just a little outdated, don’t you think?”

I stared at the watch on her wrist. Then I looked at Travis.

There was no man left in front of me. Just a thief wearing a chef's coat.

I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I didn't give them a single scene to laugh about later.

I simply turned around and walked out the door.

The cold city air hit my face like ice water. My feet kept moving on the concrete. The noise of honking cabs and passing crowds blurred into a gray hum.

I walked and walked, staring straight ahead.

It took me twenty minutes to realize I was on Tenth Avenue. I had walked six blocks in the complete wrong direction, straight toward the river, lost in the city I had lived in my entire life.